Burying The Past
by Sabriel41
Summary: Sometimes, the hardest thing to face are the things that you have already destroyed. [Postgame, rated for darker themes.]


**Walking Away**

. o .

She lifted her sword, staring at the blade, and memories flew back at her: the people it – _she_ – had cut down, the blood that wouldn't lift from the collar of her outfit, wash it though she did. The other sword, the one that she had sworn to destroy to soothe her fears, to save her people. What did it matter now?

The young ones, old before their time; the older ones, some who knew more of the sword than her findings had ever discovered, and the demons, those possessed beyond reason. Still, she recalled, whether malevolent or angelic, or, like most of the souls entangled, a combination of both, it was a choice they had freely taken. Revenge, security, or simple fascination . . . the reasons that they gave themselves didn't truly matter. What did was that they had obeyed the summons. Free will was a myth, as far as she was concerned. 

The memories of the fighters, and the bizarre, twisted tournament of sorts they had competed in were bitter, but she conjured them up. They all had come, sooner or later, to the place that she was trying to forget. From bourgeois Europe, from the sunny Mediterranean, the feudal East, and from corners without names, they had felt the pull of the sword like a puppeteer's strings and they had come. Hadn't some writer said it best? Trying to recall what bits of Classical education she had received, the words whispered back to her. " ._ . .All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts . . ." _

And she, in _her_ time, had played more than a few parts – although tall for a woman, she could pull off the delicate 'rose bride' image that some of the Eastern fighters had alluded to. It certainly had worked in her homeland, although some of her wiser compatriots had seen the Amazon hiding behind her eyes even before the summons of the sword had reached her. Other times . . . well, she was a Chosen warrior for a reason. Grown men, even demons, had backed down from her attacks: some had succumbed completely, their injuries too grievous to continue. She stumbled at that thought, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach.

Leaning wearily against the trunk of a sturdy rowan tree, and setting what few belongings she had at her feet, the girl smoothed her hair off her face. Breathing deeply to calm herself, she noted after a few moments how the months she had spent traveling had caused brighter highlights to dance amidst the straight locks. Twirling it uncharacteristically between her fingers . . . it hadn't been this long when she had left what she knew as her home . . . but then, she thought, her eyes flashing with what could have been anger, her hair was the least important of things that had changed. 

Dropping her hand, she stood tall, and picked up her small pack, setting her eyes towards the south. It was early fall, she noted – summer had passed with barely a notice – and the trees of Central Europe were enveloped in a blaze of color. Reds and oranges fought for dominance, but, to the girl's private amusement, some green remained in the lower, less wind-buffeted branches.

Sparing a look over her shoulder, and wincing as her battle-weary torsal muscles reminded her not to move too quickly, her gaze hardened as it crossed the sight of a partially demolished cathedral in the distance. Although one side of the uppermost floor had been nearly shattered just over four years ago, it held the kind of archaic, timeless beauty that made the Hellenistic Acropolis or Renaissance Notre Dame so attractive to foreigners. Despite its flaws, she supposed, it was a thing of beauty to most. Except to a score of warriors, whom, she suspected, from now on would stay as far away from the cathedral as humanly possible. Mostly because it was a place of great evil to them – how ironic, that – that a place of godly worship had become a place that she both loathed and feared, steeped in a mêlée of conflict, sacrifice, and destruction. In part, the woman supposed that she loathed the place because of what she had done to reach it, and thus destroy the sword. She had sworn to destroy Soul Edge – and she had succeeded – but at what cost? The discovery, even, of the part of her that had enjoyed, perhaps even reveled in the destruction she had caused?

She couldn't do this again – she knew it. She had suffered, and played her part, and bled for the cause, and despite this she knew that she would never be accepted, least of all by those she had fought beside. Let those who were young and foolhardy share their stories of glory and brilliance as they returned to their own homes – she had seen the shadows that the damned brilliance hid willingly and wanted no part of it. Besides, it was hardly her style to flout her achievements. Her body, perhaps; it was, she had found, nearly as dangerous and useful a weapon as her sword had been. Confident battle words were one thing, but no opponent never truly knew the danger of the girl, often until it was too late. Wrapping her thick traveler's cloak around her, as if to shed the confident, near-aggressive image she had created for herself, she nodded in acceptance of her own choice. That left only one thing to be done, then. . .

With a tear fighting at the corner of her left eye, she raised the sword again, but with the blade pointing downwards. Two defiant words escaped her lips as she brought the sword down. . . 

"Never again."

Driving the blade down, she swept into a graceful lunge as it split effortlessly through the earth, until by the combined strength of her arms and her will, the mossy soil had enveloped the unique blade almost to the top of the hilt. Wrenching her palm away from the handle, fingers resistant to leave a grip they had memorized, she pushed the sword further down. Gathering a few of the fallen leaves over the pommel, she hid it completely from view, and brushed her hands together, as if in a silent benediction. With a sad smile on her lips, she rose from her lunge and turned away from the cathedral and the sword she had buried. This time as her steps drew her towards the South, she did not look back. 

_. o ._

_...finis._

_. o ._

DISCLAIMER: I own no part, parcel, aspect, or affiliate of SoulCalibur, or William Shakespeare (the "all the world's a stage" quote – from As You Like It -is his). I'm just an ardent enjoyer of both.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I left the character this follows rather open to interpretation – to me, this seems most characteristic of Ivy or Taki, but parts of it, when I was writing seemed to ring of Sophitia. Ergo, take what you will, and if you enjoyed what you read, pass a review my way. What you liked, what you thought I could improve; (or, if I made any tactical/geographical errors in relation to the cathedral. Lazy me. . .) I'll appreciate it all, and try to return the favor! Cheers, and Starry Nights.


End file.
